


Asset

by Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: Heroes Are Villains [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, GFY, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-01-24 04:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1591514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he fails to complete one mission, his memories are wiped and the parameters of the mission changed. The target is the same, the order is no longer to kidnap but to kill. Too bad his masters underestimated Loki's abilities, and thus, failed to prepare their asset.</p><p>Now, the Winter Soldier wakes in an unfamiliar place, and is told his former masters have passed him on to someone else. He has to learn to live in a world where he has choices to make, the ability to ask questions about anything he likes, permission to feel and be a human being, and a chance to be James Barnes again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest story in this AU so far, and will probably cover more than just the slow and not always steady change of the Winter Soldier from a weapon and asset to a person who is part of a team. I don't know how long it's going to be, or what's all going to happen, or what pieces of backstory work themselves out in the process.
> 
> Also, there is likely to be a rating change at some point, for violence and possibly for sex. I will add warnings both to the tags and to the notes of chapters that have anything that would bump the rating.
> 
> This is written after I've seen _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ , and thus, contains spoilers for some scenes from the movie, even if I'm ignoring the plot completely, as it wouldn't work with this particular AU.

He is nothing but a weapon, to be aimed and released at a target. An asset given a mission, no thought nor feeling beyond that mission. He is HYDRA's fist, he is their tool, their gun, theirs.

He fails the mission he's given. He does not understand why he fails, only that a man with a face he does not know calls him a name he does not recognize, and he hesitates. For a moment, he _feels_.

It is a moment too long, a moment that allows the mission to fall apart, for his target to escape, and for him to fail. He flees back to his masters like a whipped hound, confused and falling. They do not care that the man knew him, don't even care about his feeling save that a weapon does not feel.

A guard is put in his mouth to keep his tongue from being bitten through, his arms clamped down as the machine comes to close around his head. He hates the machine - how can he hate, when he shouldn't even feel - but he cannot tell them no. Cannot disobey even when he wants to know why he feels, why the man knew him.

* * *

Even the pain cannot take away everything. He knows something is missing, something recent, but he doesn't care. Only cares about the mission, must find those who are enemies of his masters and destroy them. Destroy all of them, bring their works down with them.

Finding them is easy; they do not hide. A great towering skyscraper with the name they've taken for themselves blazoned across it. Threat and promise all wrapped up in one, refusing to bow before anyone, and to rip apart those who try to make them.

So he has been aimed at their heart, to gut them and leave the scattered pieces for others to clean up. He watches and waits, and plans. A rifle rests easy in his hands as he waits for the right moment. Watches their lives in false color images, and marks the one he's to destroy, since his masters could not take the child.

He knows when he is no longer alone, and turns, bringing up one of his other guns to fire at the man who's joined him on the roof. Even if the collateral is wearing armor, it will slow the man long enough for him to take out another weapon. But it merely makes the man ripple like a tree in a breeze, false image impossible to distinguish from real.

An arm wraps around his throat, stronger than anyone he's faced, and a voice snarls in his ear, "Did you think you would succeed a second time when you failed the first?"

The first time had been his masters, that was what the briefing for the mission had told him. He had not been here before, never been here before. "I do not fail."

There was the missing place in his memory - another missing place in his memory, as there are so many. A doubt, but he ignores it. He is a weapon, he is the asset, and he does not feel. Does not doubt his masters, only obeys their orders.

A mirthless chuckle meets his ears when he moves to throw the man off him, and the arm tightens as a hand comes to rest on his forehead. Pain blazes through him, green drowning out his sight as a roar fills his ears. Flashes and images that mean nothing, thoughts and feelings that he cannot process.

He is an asset, a weapon, a tool, and he _does not feel_.

* * *

He wakes in an unfamiliar room, on a bed that is strangely soft, his mind as blank as it is before a mission. This is not a place his masters would put him, and he waits a long moment - assessing what he can see and hear and feel around him - before he moves. He has been left alone, in a room without windows, and with only the bed for furniture. He has been stripped bare, and given only a light pair of trousers to wear.

There is a door, but there is no handle on this side, and there is a tingle that makes his fingertips go numb when he tries to reach for it with his hand. He doesn't try to reach with the metal hand; he needs that to work if he is to escape and return to his masters.

He walks the perimeter of the room, checking the walls for signs of observation, for vents, for anything that might be useful or that might tell him where he is and why he is there. Captured, of course, but how, and why captured rather than killed?

A corner that has nothing in it, and may be where he will be behind the door - he cannot find evidence of which side has a hinge and which the lock - is better than sitting on the bed, and he crouches, back to the wall, waiting. Most people keep prisoners fed periodically, and if they are holding him, they'll want to ask questions.

That will be his chance to escape.

* * *

Steve watches the hovering image, the illusion fed by what is happening in the room Tony and Loki have sealed tighter than a drum. It had been agony to watch Bucky earlier, to hear his unconscious mutter that he did not feel, repeated over and over until Loki had taken Bucky's head between his hands, and done something he would not talk about, letting Bucky fall into a proper sleep.

"Fury did not send him." Coulson had been closeted with Loki for hours after they'd caught Bucky waiting with a sniper's rifle and brought him back here. "I don't think Fury even knew SHIELD was using him."

"Does it matter?" Steve draws a deep breath, shoving away his anger at both the attempt on Brandon's life - what was SHIELD doing targeting a _child_? Had the world gone even more mad than he thought? - and at whatever had been done to Bucky.

"Possibly." Coulson isn't watching Steve, but the same illusion Steve has been watching since he'd been told they had the would-be kidnapper. "Had you planned to tell anyone other than Natasha what you knew about the Winter Soldier."

"His name is Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes." Steve doesn't like what Natasha calls Bucky, what everyone calls Bucky. Whoever the Winter Soldier is, he's not what Bucky would want to be, and Steve won't let Bucky stay this way. Perhaps that's part of why he's not allowed any nearer to Bucky than this illusion.

"He was." Coulson doesn't try to soften that blow, and Steve is glad for that. It doesn't mean he'll agree with Coulson, though, at least not the implication that Bucky couldn't be salvaged from the Winter Soldier. Or someone who had something of Bucky, of the goodness and strength his friend had possessed, at least, even if he couldn't have the friend back he remembered.

"He will be again." He has to say it, even if Coulson can't believe him.

"Maybe." Coulson turns to look at Steve, finally, an expression on his face that Steve can only read as doubt. "I hope, for your sake, you can find him in there. But don't expect it to happen quickly."

"I don't." Steve wants to hope it will, but everything he's read and seen since waking - and some from before he went into the ice - suggests it may be a very long time before he has anything of Bucky back from under the layers of memory loss, programming, and injury.

Coulson's hand on his shoulder is silent comfort that Steve leans into a moment, before it and Coulson are gone, leaving Steve to watch over Bucky alone again.

* * *

"It's hard to come back to yourself even when you don't have the sort of shit going on with your head he does." Clint is watching a hologram of their current guest, leaning back against Thor, and letting himself be enveloped by warm. He's not short, but Thor makes them almost all look small, except maybe Steve. It's almost nice, sometimes. "When you want to be a good person, or at least a person who can say you aren't a monster even when you can't sleep at night for some of the things you've done."

None of them sleep well all the time - some of them don't even sleep periodically, and Clint lets one corner of his mouth twitch up in a wry smile when he thinks about trying to get Tony to sleep. Thor is perhaps the one who sleeps best, but when he doesn't sleep well, all of them know it. All of the _city_ knows, and the streets around the tower are almost barren when it storms anymore.

"Steve thinks he shall find his friend under the Winter Soldier." Thor's voice doesn't suggest he has an opinion either way, though Clint knows him well enough to know Thor hopes Steve is right. Thor wants everything to be as well as it can be, even when everything seems a hopeless mess. Clint suspects he even hopes they'll find a way for Thor and Loki to go home to welcome instead of censure.

Clint can't let himself hope for that, or he loses two more friends to things beyond his control. Two more more-than-friends, though lovers doesn't seem to be the right word. Nothing even seems to be the right word, because nothing in any language he knows quite covers everything.

"Yet when Loki let him interact with the Winter Soldier, things don't go well at all." The room had been made to hold the Hulk, so the Winter Soldier hadn't actually done a lot of damage, but it had still been an epic tantrum. Clint could understand lashing out because there was too much to hold in, though. "I don't think it's going to do any good."

"Perhaps someone else might attempt to speak with him."

"If you're about to suggest me, don't. And probably not Natasha, either." Clint shifts, frowning a little. "Let Phil handle him, or Bruce. I'm not going near him unless he actually wants to be something other than someone's weapon."

* * *

The questions come from images that prove to be false, the food appears without need for the door to open, and the only relief from he has from the bland monotony of the sealed room is a bathroom, behind a door he hadn't seen before it was opened. It unsettles him to know they can disrupt reality so readily, but he doesn't let it show. Only uses the bathroom when he's allowed, and remains quiet and waiting in the corner when left alone.

There have been three of them so far. A blond man who calls him by a name that means nothing, and tells him stories that mean as much as the name. A dark haired man who never stops talking, and is far too interested in the metal arm. And a dark haired woman that something in the back of his mind screams cannot be what she appears.

None of them have asked him anything about his missions, none of them have gloated over his capture, and none of them have made any threat - useless, if they _were_ made, but they can't be certain of that - to torture or kill him. They all seem to treat him as if he were not a prisoner, were not their enemy, and he doesn't understand how they could do so.

The shimmer near the door tells him one of the three is back again, in as much as they ever are here. He wonders sometimes if he's imagining them, but how can he imagine things that dredge up emotions he's not supposed to have? He's an asset, he does not feel, he does not question.

"On your feet, soldier." The figure is new, dressed in a suit that makes him think of his masters. He doesn't even realize he's obeying the man as such until he's on his feet, waiting patiently for orders. Orders he should not be waiting for; the man cannot be one of his masters.

"Your services have been transferred."

Those words nearly make him blink, and he doesn't know why there is a sense that he's been hit by a bullet a little too close to the heart. He has always worked for the same masters. There may have been different faces coming to give him the orders, but he's always had the same masters in the end.

"You are now an asset of mine."

He isn't certain he can believe the man. He has been left alone in a room he cannot escape, and he has believed himself captured, but he cannot remember the mission he had to have been on in order to have been captured. He is as he has been before a mission, save the room is strange, and the lag in contact with those who give him orders.

"Then what is my mission?" His voice is at least steady, and he doesn't even let his gaze flicker to the false image of the man in the suit. "My target?"

"You don't have a target. You have an assignment."

He frowns, looking at the image, not sure what is happening. He is a weapon to be aimed at others, and how can a weapon be used if it does not have a target?

The man gives him a small smile, and continues when he doesn't ask the question aloud. It is a small thing, and if this is his new master, it's better he's happy with his asset than upset. Even if he doesn't seem inclined to use a weapon as it should be.

"You are to keep this asset," here an image comes up as easily as the images of the men have, this time of a man shorter than him, dark blond hair cropped short, dressed in leathers similar to his battle harness, save there is nothing to protect the man's arms, "alive during missions as assigned, and work with him in training."

He studies the image of the other asset closely, before nodding. "When does the mission begin?"

* * *

"You did _what_?" Clint's shout is audible through the wall, and Tony _knows_ he insulated those walls. Not enough to keep from hearing Thor, but he thought enough to keep from hearing the rest of the Avengers.

"JARVIS, relay the conversation next door, with a bit of volume control." Tony wants to know what's going on, and everyone here knows by now he can see and hear anything in the tower that he wants to.

"We need him to trust us, and he is not going to do so unless we can work with - and in the long run, around - the programming in place." Phil sounds far too calm, but he almost always does. "You know Loki has already employed what methods he has available to him to loosen some of that programming."

"Yeah, probably in favor of his own failsafes, because he watches his own back, unlike some people I know." That dig makes Tony wince, even though it isn't directed at him.

"Likely. That doesn't mean leaving him to his own devices will make working around the programming already in place happen any faster. We have to work with him, and you're the best choice to start him with."

"Really?" Disbelief is clear in Clint's voice, and Tony has to wonder the same thing. He's not at all sure of what Phil's thinking, himself, and he'd been there when Phil had gotten the Winter Soldier to do something other than brood or throw a tantrum. "And why's that?"

"You've been working with a partner to watch your back since you joined SHIELD, and he needs to become accustomed to being around others on a long-term basis. I need you to train with him, get him comfortable around you - and you comfortable around him - so we can keep an eye on how his programming is degrading."

How the memories surface, and how they effect the Winter Soldier - and if they start to find someone resembling the Bucky Steve keeps talking about underneath everything. Or someone else, and Tony doesn't really care which, so long as whoever it is doesn't try to kill any of them, and doesn't come anywhere near his son ever again. At least not until Tony is sure he has something in place that will protect Brandon, even against the Winter Soldier, metal arm and all.

* * *

There are times when Phil wonders if what he does is any better than what he's fighting against. If he's using the Avengers as weapons against the evils of the world as much as HYDRA used the Winter Soldier against particular enemies. It's worse this time, since he's using everything Loki had gleaned from the Winter Soldier's mind when he'd taken the man prisoner to use the Winter Soldier against HYDRA.

That he's trying to break down the programming that had buried so much of the Winter Soldier's past - perhaps in the process bringing forward something of the James Barnes Steve remembers, but Phil doesn't let himself hope too much - in the process doesn't soothe his worries. The conversation with Clint afterward had only heightened those worries. Clint knows all too well where his vulnerable spots are, and had been ruthless in exploiting them in that discussion.

He closes his eyes, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands. That he will question his own decisions in the aftermath is inevitable, but he's not sure he can afford to question this one yet. Something had to be done to work with the Winter Soldier before the idea that he was a prisoner - already he had all but seen that thought cross the man's oddly readable face - solidified in his head, and could not be budged.

So long as the Winter Soldier thinks himself as Phil's asset, Phil's weapon, they have a chance of working the rest out. A chance to get him to see himself as not just a weapon, but a person capable of making his own choices, of living for more than a mission. He hopes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier meets his assignment. Clint hopes Phil's plan to saddle him with a roommate doesn't backfire. Bruce watches in case Hulk is needed. And Steve isn't sure he should let Natasha talk him into some wanton destruction, but does anyway.

After the man in the suit - his new master, as if his old ones had cast him off, with no use for him remaining - has come to give him his orders, the door no longer tingles when he touches it, though there is still no handle. He doesn't know how he's supposed to carry out his mission if he's not allowed to leave, and gives the entire room a frown for good measure, not knowing where they're watching him from.

How long it is before the door swings open, he doesn't know, but the man on the other side is the other asset, the one he's to be working with now. Blue eyes watch him with a mix of wariness and annoyance. As if he doesn't like the idea of working with someone else, and doesn't trust a new asset to do the job properly. It would be why they have to train together before they can be assigned missions together.

"Well? Come on, you're not staying in there." The asset beckons him, perhaps a bit impatiently, and he follows, uncertain of where else he might be housed, beyond a cryostasis chamber. Which could not be where the other asset was leading him, not if they're to work together.

"You won't have your own room yet, no one trusts you that much." The asset grimaces, though at what, he doesn't know. It doesn't matter. "Don't go anywhere without me. If you need something to eat, let me know, I'll grab something out of the communal kitchen."

A kitchen to share suggests this isn't the same sort of base he'd been on before. A smaller place, with the assets given more freedom. Possibly more entwined with their masters, but he doesn't know yet. He doesn't understand why his former masters had so little use for him they discarded him, and less so why to such a small unit.

Unless they trusted him to work on longer missions, and with others rather than with strict orders and tight time tables. That thought brings a sense of pride that he doesn't think he's supposed to feel, anymore than he should have felt - betrayed? - before. He goes where he's told, does what he's told, and whatever his masters decide is best for him is what is best for him.

"Here." The asset has stopped outside a door with a keyed lock, opening it and pushing it open to let them into the space beyond. A large room, with a bar that divides a small kitchen from a space that is not as sparse as he had expected of an asset's room. It doesn't look like a room so much as a living space, no beds visible at all, and two doors on the wall opposite that are shut.

"Door on the right is the bedroom, door on the left is the bathroom. Fridge mostly holds beer, protein shakes, yogurt and peanut butter." The asset closes the door behind him, and locks it with the same key he used to unlock it. As if he's allowed to close his master out of his room. Their room.

"You can call me Clint. Do you have something you want me to call you?" The asset moves away, dropping the key into a bowl on the end of the bar. Trusting him not to take it and let himself out with it. Not that a locked door would be an obstacle even if he didn't have a key.

"I am an asset, and a weapon. I was never given a name." He doesn't know that he needs a name now, but Clint seems to expect one.

Clint snorts, and rolls his eyes. "I am not calling you 'asset' or 'weapon'." Clint's blue gaze sweeps over him, assessing and studying him. "And 'Hey, you' doesn't work in the field."

He shrugs. "Pick something."

Clint watches him again, silent and still as any sniper waiting for the shot to be right. A familiar sort of stillness, though he can't remember from where. After a moment, a mischievous smile quirks up the corners of Clint's mouth. "Scruffy."

He shrugs again, since the name doesn't bother him, and it has given Clint something to keep him happy. "When do we begin training?"

"Tomorrow." Clint's smile fades, and he turns away, going to the fridge, pulling out a green glass bottle. "Do you want a beer?"

He has no time for alcohol if he is to remain mission-ready, and shakes his head, a small frown on his face. Is this one of those things he's to keep Clint safe from, or something he should ignore?

"One beer is not going to dull my skills enough to matter." Clint seems to be able to read his mind, or at least see his thoughts in his expression. "And we're not training until afternoon. You need something to wear other than the battle-harness, and I won't share my clothes."

Which implies that new clothing will be provided in the morning, though why that should take any great deal of time, he doesn't know.

"There's only one bed, and I'm not taking the couch." Clint pauses, watching him a moment over his bottle of beer. "Neither are you."

It doesn't matter to him, and he simply follows into the room when Clint heads there. It has a bed larger than any he's seen, wide enough for them both to sleep on without touching. Large, and when he sits on it, as soft as the one he'd woken on. Comfort that is wasted on him, that he had always known was wasted on assets. A comfort he'd never asked for, a weakness he did not want.

"This is soft." It is not a question, because some questions cannot be asked. Should not be asked, and the question of why bother with softness and comfort is one of them.

"Not really." Clint shrugs, going to a battered dresser that must have once been sleek and expensive. "You can up the pressure if you want it harder, though." He tosses a remote, which had a simple switch.

The highest setting feels familiar, the mattress hard enough beneath him to remind him of fleeting images that he doesn't understand, and pushes away. It is still a waste of luxury, but he cannot question the master's decision to give such things to mere assets.

* * *

Clint watches as the Winter Soldier - Scruffy, James, Sergeant Barnes, whatever - falls asleep almost as soon as he lays down on his side of the bed. He hadn't liked Phil's decision, but maybe he was right. Maybe Clint is the best option for this, but it didn't make Clint like it any better. The Winter Soldier is just a tool, and Clint would have preferred to wait until there is someone more than the Winter Soldier in the man he's letting sleep on the far side of his bed.

Letting out a quiet snort, he shakes his head, stripping down to his boxers before sliding into his side of the bed, the mattress dipping and molding around him to cradle him. Some days he wants it as hard as he's sure the other side is, and others he wants the cradling softness. Right now, he wants the contrast to the Winter Soldier, and he is almost tempted to soften the mattress further, if he weren't certain his back would curse him in the morning if he did.

As it is, he's sure he'll be cursing Phil before the end of tomorrow without any extra incentive.

* * *

Bruce watches from the observation galley of the shooting range, breathing steady and even as that of the two together on the line, rifles aimed down range at targets he can't see clearly without binoculars. The advantage to being in the circle of Tony Stark are things which no one else could afford, like a mile-long range dug under the streets of New York, one that's as Hulk-proofed as any place can be.

There's another, more appropriately-sized room in the upper floors of the Tower, but right now, Bruce would rather be watching Clint and the new addition. Here, he can be a help to his friend, if everything goes wrong.

He can see the tension across the shoulders of the one Phil calls Winter Soldier, Steve calls Bucky, Clint calls Scruffy, and Tony calls "that fucking menace" with real distaste in his voice. Bruce thinks he'd prefer Barnes or James, both of which are technically names that belong to the man who doesn't claim any name at all.

"Who is he?" The question comes from Barnes, and it's a good thing to hear a question from him at all. They've not heard many so far, but there's something about Barnes that's grown more tense and agitated over the course of the day, even if he is keeping it clamped down as hard as Bruce has kept the Hulk clamped down in the past.

"One of our heavy hitters." Clint's answer is brief and to the point, if not nearly comprehensive. "And one of our scientists."

Among other things, but he appreciates that Clint doesn't elaborate further. No one has mentioned the way interpersonal dynamics work here, but they're all certain it's too early to introduce that concept to Barnes. Too early, even, to make it obvious they're not some team working for HYDRA or SHIELD or anyone but themselves.

There isn't another question, not even one about how it's possible for Bruce to be a heavy hitter. The tension across Barnes's shoulders does ratchet upward for a moment before he consciously relaxes. Too much tension doesn't help a sniper, and Barnes has that in common with Clint, if nothing else.

* * *

The morning had involved a disembodied voice and a holographic projector to find him clothing, the first pieces delivered before noon for training. Clint had told him to find something, and told the disembodied voice - an AI, JARVIS - not to give suggestions, only to offer a selection.

There wasn't much choice, but even that much was strange. He had always been issued the clothing he was to wear, no choice of color or shape or anything. He had a moment of what he thought was panic, mostly from having seen it in others around him, and clamped down hard on it. If he's to do what he's told, he has to make the choice.

Black is easy, the color of his battle-harness, and when he doesn't have that choice, grey. Colors that blend in to nearly anything, that don't call attention to him. Keeping him from coming to the notice of his new master for the wrong reasons.

Clint snorts when he sees, and grins a moment, before clapping him on the shoulder and congratulating him on making the choice. He isn't certain why it's worth such, but he still feels a spark of pride that he savors for a moment before shoving it away with a sense of confusion that he doesn't want to feel any more than pride or panic.

After he has his training clothes, they take an elevator down and down, and a corridor to a door that Clint has to use a retinal scan to open. Beyond, there is a massive open space, a range with rifles waiting for them. There's an observation deck above the door as they step in, and a man dressed in nice clothes, watching them with eyes that hold a darkness that seem incongruent with the rest of him.

Too soft to have the sort of knowledge that makes that sort of darkness. Too gentle-looking to possibly have the blood on his hands that would haunt a person.

His thoughts confuse him, and he shoves them and the feeling aside, focusing on Clint and the rifles, and the instructions their master must have left for Clint before Clint came to fetch him last night. Testing his ability on the rifles, though they called it a preliminary assessment of skills to determine any necessary skills training. The rest of the training will simply be to get them comfortable working with each other.

"Don't worry if you aren't making the same scores I do." Clint is checking over his rifle with the precision and skill of any professional sniper. "No one has beat my scores without computer targeting." There's a smugness and pride to Clint's tone that makes him frown a little at his fellow asset.

As they settle into the rhythm of alternating shots at the targets that are set up along the range, all the way to the end. He feels another trickle of pride at the neat headshots at the bullseye that most of his targets sport, save the few toward the end of the range. He looks over at Clint, a smile crossing his face that feels strange.

"You're good." Clint smiles back, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder for a moment. "Another round?"

He doesn't know if that's part of the test or the training, or even if it's been ordered, but after a moment, he nods. He'd like that.

"I'll reset the range, then." Clint goes over to a panel which has a touch-screen, only glancing up briefly when he joins the other asset. "You won't be able to reset the range yet, but won't hurt to watch, so you know how."

If he's allowed to remember, but he doesn't say that, just watches Clint as he puts in parameters for the set up. Different from before, with targets they have to hit and targets they cannot hit or they lose points.

"Can't always rely on the target being so easy." Clint looks over at him, waiting until he meet's Clint's gaze. "No harming civilians, or we're no better than those we're going after."

He doesn't understand - feels as if he should, but doesn't know why - but he nods anyway. His previous masters hadn't cared, but they also hadn't cared about any of the other things that the new one apparently does. Comfortable beds and a choice of clothes and a partner to watch his back as he watches his partner's. It's new, and he's not sure what to make of it yet.

This round, he can feel the observer watching him closer, and he takes longer with his shots than he should, making sure each one is right. The shots at the far end of the range are still not as good as he can see Clint's are, but he didn't hit any of the non-targets, so he's pleased with his results.

He shifts, wondering if he could ask for another round for a moment before he cuts that thought off. Instead, he asks one he thinks would be more acceptable. "Who is he?"

Clint glances at him, then up at the balcony a moment. "One of our heavy hitters, and one of our scientists."

It's an answer that doesn't make sense to him, but he doesn't ask Clint to clarify, since it's probably not something that's important to them. A different sort of asset, perhaps, or someone a little more important. Not a soldier, not when he looks so soft - and what does Clint mean by a heavy hitter, when the scientist looks like he's never seen a fight in his life, save for the darkness in his eyes? - but something else.

Taking a deep breath, he looks through the scope of his rifle to make sure he's cleared the range of targets.

"We'll have time for more later." Clint is beginning to break down his rifle, a cleaning kit brought over to where they've worked from. "I don't know about you, but I want to grab dinner, maybe a beer."

Blinking, he shifts so he's sitting up, beginning to take apart the gun almost without thinking about it, echoing Clint's motions. He barely notices when he's hungry, and he's always eaten when he's told, if he's told, or when he's given food. It had been the same when he first woke here, and he'd eaten today when Clint had.

"You want anything in particular for dinner?" Clint is watching him with an almost wary expression, his brow furrowed slightly.

"It doesn't matter. Food is food." He shrugs, ducking his head to look at the rifle as he begins to clean it. Drawing a breath to try to clear away some of the confusion in his head, the feeling like he's floundering without someone telling him what to do.

There's a sigh from Clint, but no more questions, at least. Above them, he can hear the observer shift away from the rail, getting ready to leave. To report on the results to the masters, probably.

"I'll order in Indian."

The words don't make sense at first, then when they do, he frowns, wondering why the observer is bothering to tell them what he's eating, or that he's having it made somewhere outside this facility and brought to him.

"Your usual place?" Clint is looking up at the observer, a small smile on his face. "Order some extra sambar, would you?"

The observer chuckles, an amused smile on his face a moment. "And extra paneer for Tony." The observer glances at him, but doesn't ask him if there's anything he wants, which is a relief. "Do you want me to bring some up to your room, or are you both coming down to eat with the rest of us?"

He blinks, looking up to meet the observer's gaze himself, trying to see if there's any sign of which way he's supposed to decide. There's nothing, and he has to clamp down on a sense of panic.

"I'll grab enough for both of us, and take it up." Clint's decision helps, and after a moment, he draws a slow breath, glad for the decision being taken out of his hands. "Phil doesn't want him to meet everyone at once. And you know how Tony and Loki are right now."

The observer looks pained a moment, but nods, and after a moment, leaves without saying anything else.

* * *

"You didn't really need back-up on this mission, did you?" Steve is watching Natasha meticulously clean the knives and guns she's planning to take with her when she goes to meet the informant who is supposed to have information on how SHIELD - or HYDRA, threaded through SHIELD - turned Bucky into the Winter Soldier.

"If it were the mission I claimed it to be, no." Natasha sets another knife in the row laid out on the thin mattress of the iron-framed bed. "I had something else in mind."

Steve frowns, not liking having been lied to, but he knows that Natasha doesn't always tell anyone why she's doing what she's doing until she absolutely must. She might trust them in her bed, but she doesn't trust any of them in her head, not even Clint or Coulson, and she's worked with them for most of a decade.

"There is a SHIELD base near here, a research base." Natasha pulls another gun from the duffel next to her, taking it apart to clean it with the same care and precision as she has her knives. "It's probably connected to HYDRA. I do not care if it is or is not connected to what was done to the Winter Soldier."

"What do you plan to do?" Steve suspects he's not going to entirely like the answer, but at the moment, he's willing to think of this like he did the missions during the war. A necessary thing, perhaps a necessary evil. It might keep him up at night, but if it saves people, it will be worth the lost sleep.

"Collect any relevant information they may possess, and destroy the base." Natasha smiles a moment, sharp and cold, and Steve straightens a bit. "I prefer Stark's brand of mad science to SHIELD's. He at least makes no secret of what he plans ot use it for."

Steve as to admit, at least to himself, that he does prefer how Stark is dealing with the world over how SHIELD is, though it's perhaps informed by knowing SHIELD has been infiltrated by HYDRA, if not hollowed out and all but replaced by HYDRA. The world how Tony sees it isn't always what he thinks he should be fighting for, but then, he's not really. He's fighting for a world the way he hopes it could be, one day.

"What sort of window are we looking at?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Bruce discuss the mess that is the Winter Soldier's mind, Clint and the Winter Soldier spend another day working together, and Natasha and Steve make a mess of a SHIELD research base.

"What did you do when you rummaged through his head?"

Loki watches Bruce for a moment before he shrugs, a small smile on his face a moment. "I loosened the rather crude blocks on his memories, and made certain there was a framework for them to tumble into when the blocks finish crumbling. There were some nasty little booby traps in there as well, most of which can't be dealt with until he begins to recover those memories."

"A framework?" Bruce picks up his cup of tea, taking a sip, his expression showing nothing more than curiosity. Loki isn't certain he should believe that, but then, even when Bruce does disapprove of things, he rarely says so if it might cause an argument - or if he thinks it might.

"A very simple and basic one, but not a terribly rigid one." Loki leans back against the comfort of the couch, keeping his voice light, though not too airy. "Rather like a scaffold, if one were made of willow and thread rather than steel. Giving, as needed, but not allowing everything to tumble everywhere."

That evokes a soft smile of amusement, and a thoughtful look in Bruce's eyes. Not condemning, not at all, but considering the usefulness of what Loki's done, he thinks.

"What sort of booby-traps are buried in his mind?"

"The sort that will kill him if he pokes at the wrong memories, or tries too hard to break free of the programming. Or, if we're trying to deprogram him in one of your more traditional fashions, would have led to the deaths of every mortal in his path."

Loki had particularly not liked that one, but it had been too deeply rooted to get out in one session, and he'd had to leave it be for now. Let the memories start to surface, and the programming start to degrade, and then he'll pry at it some more.

"There will be memories - and possibly progress on the recovery of self - lost in removing that particular bit of work."

Bruce grimaces at that, taking another sip of his tea. The blend he always has when he's talking about things which might trigger Hulk's appearance involuntarily. No need to upset the beast before Bruce lets him out to play.

"How long will we have to wait before you can go after that one?"

"I don't know." Loki taps his fingers on the arm of the couch, turning his gaze inward a moment as he tries to figure out the depths that need to be uncovered before he can draw all the roots grounding that trap from the mortal's mind. "It may need tripped before I can draw it out."

"Steve won't like that."

"He doesn't have to like it." Loki knows his methods of rooting out the mess that had been left in the assassin's mind is one that few of those he surrounds himself with here would like. He also doesn't care, so long as it does the desired job and keeps his own safe. "He doesn't even have to agree with my methods. The only one who does is the one whose mind it will injure, and help."

Bruce tilts his head in acknowledgement, and lets silence fall instead of pushing the conversation forward. It's a pleasant thing, spending time in the quiet here, and Loki shifts to sprawl a little more on the couch, letting himself relax now that the difficult part of the evening is over.

* * *

Clint pulls out the containers he'd collected from downstairs, spreading the dishes over the bar, giving the arrangement a critical look to make sure the sides are easily accessible no matter which side of the bar he's on - or if he's on it, like he tends to be when he's eating alone. Satisfied, he grabs a pair of plates, and a pair of beers out of the fridge. Even if the Winter Soldier doesn't drink, Clint knows he'll be thirsty enough to drink them both.

"If you'd rather something else, there's water; glasses are over the sink." Clint finally glances over to where the Winter Soldier has been sitting, looking almost blank, on the couch. There's a line between his brows, as if he's not quite sure of something. "Dinner's self-serve."

He grabs the bottle opener to crack open one of the beers, leaving the other at the end of the bar if the Winter Soldier wants it before he hops up on the clear space on one side of the array of food. Heaping his plate with rice and sambar, and adding other foods he particularly likes to the sides.

He pretends not to notice the Winter Soldier staring at the food with a lost expression on his face, letting the other man figure out dinner on his own. It's not what the Winter Soldier is likely used to, but Clint doesn't care right now. Dinner is an easy enough choice, at least once narrowed to one set of dishes.

A smile quirks up at the corner of his mouth when he looks up a bit later to see something of everything piled on the plate the Winter Soldier is sitting on one of the bar stools to eat. Polite, in a way Clint isn't trying to be.

"Do you want the beer?" he asks, taking a long swallow of his own, and raising an eyebrow when the Winter Soldier meets his gaze.

"No." The Winter Soldier doesn't hold his gaze long, turning his attention back to the food in front of him, taking neat, quick bites. Almost bolting his food, as if he can't get enough in fast enough. Steve had been that way when he'd first thawed out, and Natasha was the same after she'd been on a long mission. Clint wonders if HYDRA had found a variant of the serum given to Steve they'd tested on the Winter Soldier.

After a moment, Clint shakes his head, and slides off the bar to get a glass of water. He needs to remember to put some drinks other than beer in the fridge tomorrow. After a moment, he grabs a second glass, filling them both, and setting one in front of the Winter Soldier before hopping back up on the bar.

"Hey, JARVIS, put in an order for some milk and orange juice to put in my fridge, would ya?" Clint snags another mouthful of rice and sambar, trusting JARVIS to make sure there's groceries for him to put away when he gets up. Chasing his food with beer, he adds, "And something snacky. Scruffy looks like he'd do good to have something he can grab any time."

The Winter Soldier looks up at him, a small frown on his face a moment, and he nearly sets his fork down, before Clint rolls his eyes.

"That's not anything like a suggestion you stop eating. Unless you're not hungry anymore." He raises an eyebrow in challenge, and the Winter Soldier narrows his eyes a moment, deliberately scooping up another forkful and eating it without looking at it. As if daring Clint to say something about it.

It only makes Clint grin, glad to see at least a spark of something. Independence, maybe, defiance won't hurt. He glances down at his plate, contemplating adding more to it before he scoots back a little, sticking with what he has.

"Whatever you don't finish, we can put in the fridge for breakfast. Tomorrow is Tony burns breakfast and Thor makes pop-tarts for everyone day. Leftovers are usually a better option."

* * *

The second day is training in a massive gym with more pieces of equipment than he can name, huge windows that are almost too dark to see through, and a different observer from the day before. A broad man with long blond hair and a smile that's almost disturbing in how cheerful it is, dressed in loose clothing that could easily be workout gear.

"I do not need a babysitter." Clint is looking irritated at the big man, and he moves closer to his fellow asset. They're not on a mission, but he can't keep Clint safe on a mission if Clint isn't able to take on missions. He'll be reassigned, he's certain, if that's the case, but it won't happen because he's not watching Clint's back.

"I understand, Clint, but I am not here merely for your sake." The man looks over at him, his smile somewhat more disturbing this time, in the cheerful, casual threat it holds. "Our new friend here should know he has more than merely yourself to watch over him."

He raises an eyebrow at that, wondering if the man weren't entirely sane.

Clint sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right. Scruffy, this is Thor. Thor, Scruffy. Don't destroy the equipment with some sort of crazy contest I can't compete in, would you?"

Thor's eyebrows go up, and he gives Clint a look that balances somewhere between confused and disturbed, though why, he's not sure. He has no intention of engaging in any sort of contest with the blond man, only in doing the training they're meant to do.

"Where do you want to start?" Clint glances at him, the earlier irritation vanished as if it had never been, expression open and questioning. As if he hasn't been given instructions about what they're to do, and either doesn't know or doesn't care where they begin. Either possibility is worrying, and he can feel the thread of panic welling up that he is trying very hard to ignore. "Weights or around the track?"

That question is added with a faintly resigned tone, as if he's not entirely happy to have to limit the choices, but it's easier to pick one or the other. Not that he thinks it really matters, but it feels more right to start with running, and by doing that, he can try to look out the windows to see if there is anything that will tell him where he is now.

"Windows are kept dark to keep people from seeing in." Clint shrugs when he looks over at him. "Tony doesn't like being an accidental exhibitionist, and he built the place, so if he wants windows people can't look through, he gets them."

"Who is Tony?" It's a question he's not sure if he should ask, but can't not. He wants to know who the people are, because the more he knows, the better he can do at the assignment their master gave him. It's not the same as before, but none of this is. There's a niggling sense that perhaps he made the wrong assumptions, that maybe the first thought that he'd been caught somehow is right, but he pushes that away along with the fear over asking questions. He cannot question the masters, and he shouldn't feel.

"An engineer, does mad science." Clint shrugs again, starting to work through a set of stretches. "You probably won't actually meet him for a while, if he's holed up in his workshop again. He might actually need a babysitter, but no one can put up with him long enough to make him do much of anything. Except maybe Coulson."

Clint glances at him, studying him a moment before he adds, "Boss-man. Picks the missions and who's best on them."

The man in the suit who he's been transferred to, the new master, then. Coulson. He frowns a little, not sure he should use the name.

"He doesn't mind any of us using his name. You can too, if you want." Clint is still watching him, his expression almost unreadable.

He shakes his head, not willing to use the name unless he's told to by the man himself. It's safer to assume he's not allowed than the other way around.

* * *

They're bending the truth around the Winter Soldier, and Phil almost laughs when Thor tells him Clint said he called the shots. True, he finds missions for the Avengers to take on. True, he tells them who'd be best taking out particular targets. True, even, that Clint and Natasha, at least, think of him as their handler still, and that Clint calls him boss. Or sir.

But he hasn't been fool enough to think of himself as actually in charge of this collection of superheroes - supervillains, a voice whispered at the back of his mind - since Tony first told the world he was Iron Man, then offered Phil employment.

He both wants to leave the Winter Soldier to his settling in with Clint, and to check on them both to make sure everything's fine. He's not used to keeping a hands-off stance with anyone here anymore, something that sometimes worries him. Phil would never be this close to any agent, any asset, at SHIELD.

SHIELD. What he gave his life to, what he'd intended on wielding the Avengers for, and now it's nothing more than a shell of an ideal. Hollow, filled with the poison that is HYDRA, and all Phil has left is the ideal and the safety brought by being here with the Avengers rather than truly part of that agency.

The Winter Soldier is down in their little medical suite, so they have a baseline for future reference when something happens in the field. No matter how good he is, no matter how good any of them are, something always happens. Phil steps into the observation room rather than the medical suite itself, watching as Clint supervises the machines that are JARVIS's hands here.

"Aren't there doctors here?" The Winter Soldier has been antsy the entire time they've been in the medical suite, watching the machines with a mix of confusion and fear that makes Phil wonder what's been done to him before using machines, beyond the use of cryostasis.

"I assure you, I have completed all the necessary steps required to be a fully licensed physician, despite the lack of the usual body to do so." JARVIS sounds a touch irritated, and Phil doesn't particularly blame him. The AI is the invisible part of the Avengers, to all but the Avengers themselves, and a very select few outsiders.

The Winter Soldier twitches, but he doesn't protest again, or, indeed, make any other sound or movement beyond what he's ordered, which is a bit worrying. Phil needs to ask Loki more questions about what he saw in the Winter Soldier's mind than he had when Loki first brought him in. Each glimpse of something more is followed by this sort of shut-down, like a cycle the Winter Soldier cannot break.

Later, when he makes that observation to Loki in the course of asking him what he'd seen, Loki snorts, and tells him of course it is.

"It's not meant to be broken, but it can be bent to give him more freedom of thought." Loki grimaces, leaning forward to pick up his glass of a mead he's pronounced acceptable. "I can't fix everything with a wave of a hand. Attempting to do so would kill him. Work with him, however you need and can, and I will do what I can, when I can." He gives Phil a wry smile after taking a sip of his mead. "Don't worry, he'll be a sane and reasonable person who actually thinks like a person eventually. In months, if we're lucky."

Even getting Natasha's mind free from the Red Room programming hadn't taken that long, though Phil has always suspected that's because she had broken free on her own far sooner. Natasha has never said, one way or another.

* * *

"Thirty seconds until the first charges blow."

Natasha's fingers dance across the keyboard as she pulls information from the computer, trying to track where some of the most egregious errors of SHIELD are located so she can destroy them as well. She knows the window even without Steve's pointed reminder, and that it's rapidly closing. One more little bit...

She pulls the drive from the USB port, and tucks it into one of the hidden pockets of her outfit as they start for the door that leads away from the imminent explosions. Stepping delicately over the dead body of one of the guards, she glances at Steve with a small, feral smile before they break into a sprint down the halls.

Behind them, fire blooms into the sky as the explosives roar their fury and victory to the night. There will be no one to fight the fires the explosions cause, the bodies of soldiers and scientists alike scattered through the facility like broken dolls tossed carelessly aside. Steve's not as sweet as he likes to make some of the rest of them think, and Natasha wouldn't have anyone else - who might strike to injure rather than kill - beside her for a mission like this.

Even Clint isn't as thorough in his aid as Steve.

When they're outside the compound, watching it burn from the relative cover of the treeline, Steve leans down to quietly ask, "Where to next?"

"A computer without an internet connection that I can use to check the files on this drive." Natasha has a few other targets in mind if they can't get information off the drive, but she wants to know what she has before going for more. "Then sleep."

"I'll take the first watch." That Steve always offers to watch her back while she sleeps is another reason to take him with her. Of the rest, Phil remembers, but is rarely in the field any longer, and Clint prefers to take the second watch. The rest don't think about it, nor bother to worry about it if mentioned.

"Thank you." Natasha turns from the lovely sight of the burning buildings to smile briefly at Steve, and then returns her attention to the flames. They'll watch as long as they can before they leave, though it's never as long as she would like.


	4. Chapter 4

"They've burned down a third base." Maria sets the report on Fury's desk, giving him a long look. "The information I've retrieved from the database suggests that it's another one that's been compromised by HYDRA."

She can see the weariness on Fury's face, knows he doesn't like that he has to let someone else clean house for him, but they can't trust most of SHIELD not to have been compromised, either by HYDRA or by some other terrorist organization that their old enemy had left the doors open to. All they can do is trust the Avengers to do what they're best at, and hope - pray - they leave them something to work with when they're done.

"Casualties?" Fury doesn't even look at the file, meeting her gaze instead.

"No one left alive. Six found outside the buildings, two of them shot through the head. The other four appear to have suicided." Two SHIELD agents lost, four HYDRA agents refusing to surrender. It hurts to lose those two agents, but Maria knows Natasha won't leave behind witnesses to identify her - and if HYDRA agents arrive too quickly, it's better for their loyal agents to die quickly than to be tortured.

Fury sighs, closing his eyes a moment, and Maria frowns a little, worried about her employer - the only leader she's found respect for in her time at SHIELD, really.

"Protocol Waterfall." Two words that she had never expected to actually hear after the initial planning for that protocol, held over a couple bottles of cheap wine and a six pack of good beer. Four of them, and one of them is defected, another missing, presumed dead.

"Briefing?"

"No one." Fury opens his eyes again, meeting her gaze steadily.

Maria draws a deep breath, nodding. It's harder to burn their trail without at least Coulson, but they'll manage. She turns away, already running through the users she can mimic in the database. What she can't dump to the public will have to burn. This was supposed to be her and Coulson, but now. Now she will figure this out alone.

She worries about Fury, though, without Melinda to watch his back while he does his part of their dismantling of SHIELD. Destroying what the Avengers aren't doing already.

* * *

"Call off your viper and her guard dog, Coulson."

Phil doesn't even look up from his observation of Clint and the Winter Soldier in the gym, though he'd told JARVIS to let the call through. He knows most of the Avengers won't understand why he still wants to hear what Nick has to say. Why his once-friend hadn't tried to help them, or if he had, and had been unable.

"Why?" he asks, keeping a careful eye on the Winter Soldier. He's been moody the last couple days, and not entirely predictable. Tony's had to repair the gym already, and Clint has declared the shooting range off limits, saying something about preferring himself in one piece.

"I don't need the Avengers to clean house, Phil. Just some water and bleach." Nick's words make him look up, looking at the screen for the video phone. There's a weariness in Nick's expression that Phil hasn't seen in years, since before Nick became Director of SHIELD.

And those words are a cue, a warning and a plea. Phil frowns, hesitating a moment. "I think you need a little more than that." He isn't sure this is the best idea, but at the moment, he trusts the Avengers to do the job SHIELD is supposed to do more than he can trust even Nick and Maria. "JARVIS, cut the call."

Only once Nick's face has vanished, and the AI has assured him that the call has been disconnected does Phil let himself sag against the wall a moment. "JARVIS, you still have your back-doors into SHIELD?"

"Of course, sir." JARVIS sounds wary, and as well he might, if Phil is going to ask him to do what he's thinking about. Natasha and Steve are already have a good start on the physical destruction that he and the others hadn't really thought about. They never should have been discussing the ideas they had, but enough alcohol to relax them had left them asking questions they hadn't voiced before, and making plans that they'd never thought to use.

Phil had never thought he'd have left SHIELD, never thought he'd have trusted Tony Stark with anything, much less everything, either, but here he is.

"I need you to dump everything from the secure connected servers to open servers. Make sure Nick and Maria have safe corridors to leave whichever facility they're at. And I know Tony has malware he's contemplated unleashing on SHIELD's servers. Use it when you're done."

"Sir?" There's surprise in JARVIS's voice, which before the last six years, Phil would have said was impossible. He knows the AI far better now than he did when he first took Tony's offer, with Nick's blessing.

"Protocol Waterfall is breaking the encryption protocols, and destroying everything possible as we leave. Like a very destructive flash flood that spreads debris everywhere."

Scorched earth, only they'd known better than to use that wording for their little plan they never had thought they'd need to use. That maybe they should have used long ago, before Melinda was killed in action, or just after. Before they were down to two inside agents, and the two most watched and important members of SHIELD at that.

And really, the destruction he painted for JARVIS is only part of the plan, even only part of the destruction. It had been an object lesson for them never to get drunk, because they tended toward some very apocalyptic thinking when the four of them were drunk. And not very loyal to anything beyond their small team.

Perhaps that had been why Phil had been so drawn to what Tony had been building, but he'd never thought he'd find himself thinking this way sober.

"Is that all, sir?" JARVIS sounds almost curious, and Phil draws a deep breath.

"It's all you can do for the moment, JARVIS. Thank you."

The rest will unfold in some manner. Phil just hopes that he can manage both Waterfall and the Winter Soldier at the same time without breaking under the strain.

* * *

"Are you sure you're ok?"

Clint's voice seems to be coming from a greater distance than he expects, but he can't be further away than he's been the whole time. Close enough to catch if he moves at the fastest he can, if he uses the metal arm to grab the archer. Except that even thinking that is enough to send spikes of pain through his head that he can no longer ignore.

He's not supposed to think, he's not supposed to feel, and he can't stop doing either. Clint is a friend, and he doesn't want to hurt Clint, but the pain is screaming for him to do something, to hurt, to kill, to destroy something, everything around him.

"No."

He's not actually answering Clint's question, though there's a momentary thought that Clint will take it as if he is. He's telling himself no, telling the pain no, telling the desire to kill no. Because there is no target, no mission, no threat to Clint.

"Fuck." Clint doesn't sound afraid, just... resigned? Like he's dealt with this before, perhaps, or something, and that makes the pain spike again.

Nothing beyond the roaring of blood in his ears and the agony in his head registers until there's green everywhere. Sound, smell, sight, everything. He never thought color had a sound until now. Or a texture.

It's long minutes before he hears anything else, a murmur of words in an unfamiliar language first, the voice cool and steady and dark as dense forest. Cool fingers against his face register next, pressing against his temples, his cheeks, his eyes. They feel almost damp in places, and he wonders at that.

Smell, next, sweat and pain and fear and a sharply acrid smell that can only be piss. His own, he thinks, and there's a thread of shame that runs through his mind for a moment before he pushes it away. Hurt a person enough, and there was nothing to stop the body voiding, save having nothing to void.

He can only see black and red behind closed eyelids, and for a long moment, he lets himself stay there, lets himself be held still by the hands on his face - and the ones he registers now on his shoulders and at his wrist. Larger ones than he expects on the metal arm, as well as more familiar ones on his shoulders, and ones he's only seen at his wrist.

Only when the voice stops does he move, as the hands lift from his face, allowing him to open his eyes. Clint is indeed the one holding his shoulders down, and the blond who'd been called Thor at his wrist. There's a large, very green man holding onto the metal arm, watching him with suspicion and worry mixed together. It's a very strange expression to see, on a face that looks almost familiar, but not, at the same time.

"You with us now, Red?" That's the man who'd never stopped talking when he'd been in the room he'd woken in. Dark hair and eyes, pale as someone who'd never seen the sun. Watching him with wariness and a coldness that seems like it doesn't quite fit.

"I am conscious." That seems to be the right answer, as a smile quirks up at the corner of the man's mouth.

"Good."

"I told you I would deal with it." The voice is new and familiar at the same time, and he turns his head to look over at the other man in the room, tall and elegantly dressed, and as pale as the man who never stops talking. Green eyes meet his gaze with cool amusement - this would have to be the one talking in the unfamiliar language, who had cool hands that had been splayed across his face. "It's not the last time this will happen, mortal. I can only hope you have the strength you showed this time when it happens again. And again. And again."

"What was that?" He's not sure he should ask, but asking the question makes Thor and the green man relax, letting go of his wrist and the metal arm so Clint can help him sit up. His pants are damp and uncomfortable, but he can wait to fix that until he has an answer.

"The first of many traps in your mind that will interfere in your new life." The green-eyed man smiles briefly and sharply. "You're welcome."

He frowns, before slowly saying, "Thank you."

The words are both familiar and not, but they certainly seem to be the right ones, as they earn him another smile before the green-eyed man turns, and walks away, with the talker following in his wake.

"Come on, Scruffy, let's get you to the showers." Clint moves around to offer him a hand up, which he shakes his head at. He's capable of getting himself to his feet, he thinks. When he wobbles before he can get upright, and sits back down, he doesn't refuse the second offer, holding on until he's certain he's steady.

* * *

Clint is rather glad, when the Winter Soldier had gone very still, that Thor or Bruce are always nearby when he's working with him. Even the constant surveillance by JARVIS seems less annoying when he has to dive out of the reach of a grasping metal hand, even though the expression on the Winter Soldier's face is one of denial and pain. The pain had been there before Clint had asked if he were all right, and quite possibly been the last straw on a trigger in the programming they're supposed to be slowly dismantling.

Thor's hammer knocks the Winter Soldier back, and Clint pushes to his feet, sprinting for the far end of the gym, and the observation room there. Phil had mentioned watching them today, and Clint can only hope he's already called the others, because he can hear the fight behind him escalating.

Bruce is already shedding his shirt as Clint opens the door, Phil behind him on his coms - calling for Loki, and if there's anyone in this place who can help, the trickster is their best bet.

The next minutes are something of a blur, as Clint turns on his heel, throwing himself into the fight behind the Hulk's green bulk. He can't do anything to go toe-to-toe with the Winter Soldier, but he has help, so long as he doesn't manage to get squished between them.

Loki arrives after Thor and Hulk have managed to get their hands around the Winter Soldier's arms, holding him back even though he's struggling, until Loki brings his hands up to grip the Winter Soldier's head between his hands. Then, its like all the strings are cut, and they have to guide a limp body to the ground while Loki is doing something.

Clint catches his shoulders, and helps the last couple of feet, keeping his hands steady as the body under them stiffens and arches, as if he's having a seizure. Maybe he is, if Loki is trying to take out whatever trigger they tripped today.

It feels like hours as they're doing what they can to bring the Winter Soldier back, though when he glances at a clock as Loki rocks back on his heels, it's only been maybe ten minutes on the outside. Time dilation fun.

"You with us, Red?"

Clint hadn't even noticed Tony coming into the room, and he doesn't think he's seen Tony this stripped down to the cold core of him in long time - and he's certain it's a lack of masks, rather than the coldly arrogant mask of Iron Man or the genius asshole Tony wears in public.

"I am conscious." Those are words that Clint has never been quite so glad to hear. The Winter Soldier had been utterly silent save for a grunt when the air was knocked out of him during the fight.

"Good." Tony smiles, sharp and bright as the arc reactor hidden beneath dark shirts and felt. He turns on his heel as Loki rolls his eyes, and mutters a told-you-so, leaving them to finish dealing with things - both the Winter Soldier and the clean-up of the gym.

Loki looks down, and his expression is definitely a mask, sharp and dangerous as they all are. "It's not the last time this will happen, mortal. I can only hope you have the strength you showed this time when it happens again. And again. And again."

"What was that?" There's a hint of confusion and wariness in the Winter Soldier's voice, and Clint takes that as a good sign.

"The first of many traps in your mind that will interfere in your new life." Loki's lips twitch, and Clint wonders just what Loki is looking for. "You're welcome."

The response is slow in coming, but the thanks is unexpected, at least by Clint. He waits until Loki leaves before offering his hand to the Winter Soldier.

"Come on, Scruffy, let's get you to the showers." And let Thor and Hulk deal with clean up. Or Thor and Bruce, if Hulk has had enough excitement for the day.

They're most of the way to the showers attached to the gym before Clint hears another quiet, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Clint looks over at the Winter Soldier, a small smile quirking at his lips. "You're part of the team. We do that for each other." The hope that the Winter Soldier - Barnes - will become comfortable enough as part of the team to do the same for them goes unspoken.

* * *

Steve leans back against the wall of the hotel room they've secured for this part of their stalk of HYRDA, Natasha nestled against him with her head tucked under his chin. It's good to rest, and better to be allowed to hold Natasha like this, though soon enough they'll be back to their mission. It's almost like being back in the war, except he only has a partner, not a team to back him up, and his partner is female.

"Stop thinking, Steve." Natasha's use of his first name is another sign of her comfort at the moment. "Or do I need to give you something to focus on to keep you from thinking?"

He tightens his arms around her a little at that, and shakes his head. "No. And I'm not thinking, I'm remembering. It's a good thing."

"Only if it doesn't make you nostalgic for things that no longer exist." Natasha shifts a little, nestling a little deeper into his arms. "Take first watch. Wake me when you need to sleep."

She knows he doesn't sleep as much as most of the rest of them, but he nods, knowing she'll need that comfort of standing watch as much as he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not where I thought this story was going. Hell, I thought this story was going to be about Barnes, and his recovery. Apparently it's more than that, but it would have been useful for my muses to tell me this before now. *sighs, and thumps head on desk* Oi.


End file.
